


dessert u

by thunderylee



Category: KAT-TUN (Band), NewS (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Romance, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2019-01-22 11:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12480356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except when you bring it home with you.





	dessert u

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck.

“I can’t believe my baby sister is marrying an _American_ ,” Nakamaru mutters for the fortieth time since they’ve boarded the plane, which hasn’t even taken off yet.

“At least it’s not Akanishi,” Massu says sympathetically as he eyes the lunch menu.

Nakamaru pauses at that, turns towards Massu, and stares for so long that Massu abandons the picture of an unobtainable juicy steak (first class only, he swears they only put it on the menu to torture the commoners) and starts to question Nakamaru’s mental state.

“This is why you’re my best friend,” Nakamaru tells him firmly, and Massu grins. “Even if I know the only reason you’re coming with me is to see Las Vegas.”

“That’s not _entirely_ true,” Massu points out. “Someone has to keep you from going all psycho niichan on Eriko.”

Nakamaru sighs as he leans back into his seat. “At least it’s not Jin, at least it’s not Jin…”

Massu returns his attention to the shiny, mouthwatering steak and wonders if he’s famous enough to sneak an upgrade.

*

As appropriate as it seems, watching The Hangover on the plane isn’t such a good idea. Nakamaru spends most of it cringing from secondhand embarrassment, and Massu is a cross between traumatized and offended every time the Asian character speaks.

“I don’t understand Americans,” Nakamaru mutters under his breath. “Their concept of humor is so skewed.”

“Don’t be racist,” Massu hisses, half kidding. “I’m sure your sister’s fiancee is nothing like this.”

He’s right. The man Nakamaru Eriko is marrying looks like he should be a minion in The Sopranos, with slicked-back hair and a long Italian last name that Nakamaru can’t pronounce. Massu thinks he looks like a rat.

“Yakuza?” Nakamaru asks his sister bluntly, and she sighs.

“It’s called the mafia here,” she replies, “and no, he’s not. His family owns a chain of casinos in the area. They’re very well off.”

“Obviously,” Nakamaru says dryly, eyeing Eriko’s sequined dress that would send Tegoshi into a fit of jealousy. “You’re his arm candy.”

“ _Niichan_ ,” Eriko says exasperatedly. “He loves me.”

“Of course he does,” Nakamaru spits. “You’re his living exotic fantasy.”

Eriko looks helplessly at Massu. “Taka-nii,” she whines, “make him stop.”

“Nothing wrong with exotic fantasies,” Massu says distractedly, turning his nose toward the delicious smells wafting from the closest buffet. “Let’s eat.”

It feels a bit like the awkward okonomiyaki scene in a drama as the four of them dine in a booth at the Luxor, which is where Eriko’s fiancee is putting them up as well as where the wedding will be held. Something about being united somewhere that can be seen from space; Massu’s not really listening. Eriko’s tone is happy and excited and call him naive, but she’s a grown woman and can make her own decisions. Or mistakes, as Nakamaru’s disapproving eyes exclaim.

Besides, buffets are Massu’s favorite thing about America. He’s really only been to Hawaii, so this is completely new and exciting to him. All drama aside, Massu loves Las Vegas, the constant soundtrack of beeps and coins from the slot machines that are everywhere – even the _bathrooms_ – and the many different culinary aromas attacking him from all directions. It’s like a delicious orgy for his nose.

“Taka-nii,” Eriko calls his attention the next time Nakamaru heads to the buffet tables (his fourth trip, Massu notes proudly). “I don’t care what you have to do, but _please_ keep him from sabotaging my wedding. I really didn’t expect him to drop everything and fly out here just to give me away.”

“He loves you,” Massu tells her. “He’s just worried about you.”

Eriko’s face softens. “I know he means well, but I don’t think he realizes the power of his ‘worries’. Tony thinks Niichan wants to kick his ass.”

Chewing thoughtfully, Massu looks at the man next to her – whom he’s taken to calling ‘Rat-san’ in his head – and watches his head perk at the mention of his name. Naturally, he doesn’t understand anything else they’re saying, but he offers Massu a polite nod and keeps eating, oblivious to the tone of their discussion. He reminds Massu a lot of Tegoshi, actually, only greasier; Tegoshi would _never_ willingly put that much gel in his hair.

“He probably does,” Massu finally agrees, “but he won’t. He’ll just keep sulking about his baby sister marrying into a foreign gangster family.”

Eriko rolls her eyes. “I’m serious. Whatever it takes. I’ll save you as much wedding cake as you want.”

“On it,” Massu accepts, only a little bit for the cake. The rest is for Nakamaru’s sanity.

*

“Are you sure he didn’t say ‘ _don’t_ go east of Charleston’?” Nakamaru asks as they leave the tall buildings and bright lights behind in favor of creepy-looking strip malls and questionable motels.

“Maybe?” Massu replies, hands in his pockets as they walk down the cracked sidewalk. “My English understanding isn’t what it used to be. And he has a strong accent -”

“Are those prostitutes?” Nakamaru interrupts him.

Two heads swivel towards the next intersection, where a pair of women with big hair and sleazy outfits eyeball them the corner. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Massu lectures him. “They could just be regular women with eccentric fashion sense waiting to cross the street. The blonde one’s skirt is actually kind of cute.”

“Like what you see, Jackie Chan?” the blonde calls out to them as they approach. “Fifty dollar sucky-sucky, for a hundred you can put that long dong in my crab puff.”

Massu blinks. “Okay, they _are_ prostitutes. You want one?”

“ _What_?!” Nakamaru squeaks, gaping at him.

“It’s not that expensive,” Massu says logically. “And you’re crazy uptight right now. I won’t judge you.”

He’s instantly grabbed by the arm and manhandled in the opposite direction, offering the hooker an apologetic look as he’s dragged away. Silently he wishes her well on her business ventures.

“I can’t believe you were going to _buy me a whore_!” Nakamaru’s muttering, eyes darting around like there’s anyone of Japanese education to overhear. “Where are your morals?”

“It’s _Vegas_ ,” Massu answers, shrugging, then smiles. “Do I really look like Jackie Chan?”

“Not at all.” Nakamaru doesn’t let go of him until they return to the more socially-acceptable part of Las Vegas Boulevard. They walk all the way down the strip, poking into every hotel they pass and Massu finds a bunch of interesting stores he’d like to check out. He has a feeling that right now isn’t the best time to drag Nakamaru on one of his epic shopping adventures, though.

Every hotel contains a casino and a mall in one big tripod of awesome, and Nakamaru doesn’t calm down until they walk through the Venetian. The ceiling is an exact replica of the sky, complete with the darkness of night, and they stand for a few minutes to appreciate it.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Nakamaru finally speaks.

“Me too,” Massu replies, grinning at the clouds moving above, and he starts to lose his balance from staring up for so long. Luckily, Nakamaru’s shoulder is right there. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

*

Massu considers the sleek neon cat sign for approximately five seconds before hooking his arm through Nakamaru’s elbow and pulling him through the doors. Nakamaru’s blindsided enough to step inside, but it takes all of Massu’s strength to keep him from bolting once he sees where they are.

“Welcome to Pussycats,” a topless hostess with feline ears and a tail greets them. “Can I see your IDs please? There’s a cover charge and a drink minimum tonight. Do you need a translator?”

Shaking his head, Massu manages to retrieve his wallet while continuing to seize Nakamaru’s arm. “Damn, should have hit up the ATM first,” he mumbles as he counts his cash. He holds up his passport, hands the woman some bills, and hopes the bartender will give him change.

She smiles at them, casting concerned eyes toward Nakamaru. “Is he okay?”

Massu nods. “Shy,” he says in English.

“Aww, that’s so cute.” She gestures behind her. “Sit wherever you’d like. I’ll send a nice girl over to dance for you.”

“Thank you.” Massu flashes her a grin, politely ogles her breasts, and drags Nakamaru to the farthest table. It’s still early in the evening, so the place is scarce – the only other patron at their table is a creepy-looking old man whom Massu hopes will make Nakamaru feel better about being here. He makes Massu feel like less of a pervert, anyway.

“You are the worst best friend _ever_ ,” Nakamaru hisses.

“Relax and have a drink,” Massu tells him. “And be glad this isn’t your future brother-in-law’s bachelor party.”

Nakamaru gets a murderous look in his eyes at the thought. “If I’m going to be here, I’m going to be shit-faced.”

“Okay,” Massu agrees. “Give me your wallet so you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Good idea,” Nakamaru says as he hands it over. He happens to have a lot of one-dollar bills, so Massu happily makes change while a waitress shows up to take their drink order. She looks just like the hostess, only curvier, which Massu’s eyes appreciate while Nakamaru orders the strongest thing he can think of – a Long Island Iced Tea.

“Beer, please,” Massu orders, and his mind is blown by the many different choices she immediately offers him. He just looks at her helplessly and she picks one for him, then disappears to the bar.

Their dancer is cute, Massu supposes, but she doesn’t have much to take off. He supposes he’s just inclined toward the more traditional methods of stripping, where it starts fully clothed like any normal person on the street. This girl is good enough, though – she’s clean and sparkly and smiles like she means it, particularly at Nakamaru. Massu will never understand how his cowering discomfort attracts women so well.

He hears the dancers introduced over the intercom and this one’s name is Kiki, which Massu likes because he can pronounce it and it reminds him of kiwi. On a whim, he tosses a bill in front of Nakamaru, who starts to give him a death glare, but then their drinks show up and Nakamaru downs half of his in one gulp. Good thing the wedding isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, Massu thinks as he watches his best friend kick off what will undoubtedly end with a bad hangover.

Kiki dances on the pole for a bit, executing some professional moves that impress even Massu, and the song is almost over by the time she makes her way over to Nakamaru. She’s completely naked except for her platform shoes, which she places on either side of the table in front of Nakamaru to give him a hell of a view.

“Sit on your hands, please,” she says sweetly to Nakamaru, and Massu rushes to translate at his blank look.

“I hate you so much,” Nakamaru grumbles as he does what he’s told.

“At least it’s not Akanishi,” Massu says, because it worked before, and it seems to have a repeated effect as Nakamaru considers the body gyrating against his face and quickly loses his expression of disgust. Massu’s a little jealous as she shoves his head between her breasts, leaving glitter on his nose before performing some complicated-looking acrobatic routine on his lap.

Massu just sips his beer and watches, because there’s nothing else to look at and it’s marginally pleasing to his eyes. Then the song changes and he laughs out loud at the irony while Nakamaru’s eyes roll at the recognition (or the way Kiki is rocking against him, Massu’s not sure).

“I love this song,” Kiki purrs, then starts to sing. “Give me a test drive, so I can take you for a ride~”

“Of all the songs,” Massu mumbles, then sorts through his quickly clouding mind for some passable English. “We know this singer.”

“Oh really?” Kiki replies excitedly. “He’s _so hot_. Not as hot as you, of course,” she adds to Nakamaru, who blushes even more. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she adds to Massu. “Would you like some attention while I’m over here?”

Shrugging, Massu pulls out another bill. “Sure, why not.”

She kisses Nakamaru’s nose before somersaulting over to Massu, who obediently sits on his hands while Kiki straddles him. She doesn’t actually make physical contact with him, which Massu finds fascinating along with her scent. She smells fruity (like a kiwi), even _there_ , and Massu’s both amazed and turned on at the semantics of this lap dance. Las Vegas really is the best.

At one point his head leans back, falling to the side and catching Nakamaru staring at him, his face a mixture of mortification and interest, and Massu just smiles at him and returns his gaze to Kiki. She’s working so hard to put on a good show for him, the least he can do is be attentive. When it’s over, he’s a little sad, but it’s only fair that the creepy old man gets a turn, too.

Their second drinks arrive without being requested, and Massu takes this as a sign to drink faster. Nakamaru’s already wavering, well on his way to fulfilling his goal for the evening as he manually holds his head up on the table and directs heavy eyes toward Massu.

“My baby sister is getting _married_ tomorrow,” he slurs. “To an American yakuza rat.”

“Yeah,” Massu says, reaching other to pat him comfortingly on the back. Nakamaru tenses, and Massu retracts his hand. “Sorry. Forgot where we were.”

Shaking his head, Nakamaru perks at the song playing. “Isn’t this that video that went viral a few years ago? Some kind of… roll.”

Massu tries to focus on the lyrics, but all he hears is ‘run around and desert you’. “Maybe it’s about ice cream,” he thinks out loud, then frowns at the logic. “Wait, that’s not right. How many beers have I had?”

They both eye the pair of empty glasses in front of them. “Huh,” says Nakamaru. “I bet she gave you something strong and imported.”

Massu shrugs. “It’s cool, I’m not driving.”

Another dancer takes the stage, a Latina named Cha-Cha who isn’t as flexible as Kiki but makes up for it with sass. Massu likes her a lot, at least he’s tipsy enough to keep talking to her in broken English because he likes the way she speaks to him. She’s fun, even if she taunts Nakamaru for being a prude, but at this point Nakamaru’s too wasted to really care about anything other than the boobs in his face.

By the time they’re out of cash, Nakamaru can barely stand up, and the flashing lights are even brighter as Massu holds him up by his shoulders and together they stumble back to the giant pyramid with the brightest light of all.

*

“I’m never drinking again,” Nakamaru groans on the other side of the bed, and Massu grunts in affirmation. “Where are my pants?”

Massu makes a face into his pillow. “Things you don’t want to hear when waking up in Vegas. What time is it?”

“Light,” Nakamaru answers. “I feel like death.”

“I’m starving,” Massu says. “Go take a shower, you’ll feel better.”

Nakamaru’s hungover enough to not argue, rolling out of bed and basically crawling towards the bathroom while Massu studies the room service menu. He’s so indecisive that he’s still thinking when Nakamaru returns, donning a courtesy bathrobe and a towel turban.

“I still feel like death,” Nakamaru announces, holding his heavy head. “Just clean death.”

“This is on Rat-san’s tab, right?” Massu asks, pointing at the menu.

Nakamaru’s droopy eyes lift a little. “Yes, yes it is.”

The most expensive breakfast in the hotel is brought to them awhile later, and Massu has to practically force-feed Nakamaru who can’t lift his head from the bed without an agonizing moan. He claims he’s not hungry, but Massu knows better.

“Man up, Yuichi,” Massu encourages him. “You have to give your sister away today.”

“Don’t wanna,” Nakamaru whines. “He’s a douchebag.”

Massu sighs. “Probably, but she’s happy, and that’s all that matters.”

Nakamaru just grunts noncommittally, and Massu smirks in silent victory. “I’m going to take a shower,” is all he says, and he takes his time in the giant marble stall with water that falls from the ceiling. It feels like being naked in a rainstorm as last night washes right off of him. He has a bit of a headache, but nothing serious. One of the perks of having a lot of muscle is holding your liquor better.

The courtesy bathrobe is fuzzy and soft and Massu wishes he could lay around all day in it and not have to do his hair. Nakamaru’s is already frizzing where it pokes out of the towel, and Massu sighs in defeat. “We should get ready.”

“My head is pounding,” Nakamaru replies. He’s such a bitch when he’s hungover.

Massu ignores him and pulls his suit from the dress bag, smoothing out the material and thankfully finding no wrinkles. He’d brought an iron just in case, which had been an interesting trip through customs, and now that he thinks about it there’s an iron on a shelf in this very room. Shrugging, he grabs a pair of boxers from his suitcase and starts to get dressed, unconcerned with Nakamaru’s presence in the room. He probably has his eyes squeezed shut in pain anyway.

His bow tie is polka-dotted, just to offset from the traditional black and white of his suit, and it’s the last thing he puts on before studying his reflection in the mirror. He’ll have to straighten his hair, of course, but other than that he looks presentable. Classy, even. Nodding to himself, he makes a cocky face in the mirror and turns toward Nakamaru, whose eyes are glancing in his general direction while his body is still miserably sprawled out on the bed.

“Up, Yuichi,” Massu says sternly. “You do not want me to dress you.”

Heaving the world’s biggest whine, Nakamaru heaves himself up and grabs the tuxedo Massu’s holding out for him. Massu has to prod him the entire time, but eventually he’s in some semblance of formal wear, and Massu takes pity on him enough to straighten his hair and fasten his tie for him. Nakamaru’s eyes are soft and apologetic as Massu loops his tie and smiles to show he’s not mad.

“Let’s get some ibuprofen or something before the ceremony,” Massu suggests as he finally takes the straightener to his own hair. The red is a striking contrast to his suit, which pleases him. “And no drinking.”

“That is not even an option,” Nakamaru says, cringing as he holds his head. “Do I look okay?”

Massu stands an arm’s length away, ignores Nakamaru’s pained face, and nods. “Acceptable. Everyone’s going to be looking at her anyway.”

“She _is_ beautiful,” Nakamaru agrees. “My beautiful baby sister.”

“Come on,” Massu urges, tossing Nakamaru his wallet while pocketing his own. “There’s catering and wedding cake to be eaten.”

“Sometimes I envy your one-track mind,” Nakamaru tells him as he reluctantly follows Massu down the hall.

*

The wedding is lovely. Massu feels a little weird sitting on the bride’s side with only a few of her friends while every seat on the groom’s side is filled, but he forgets about it the minute the doors open and Nakamaru escorts his sister down the aisle.

Eriko looks like she stepped right out of a bridal catalog (and probably did), but oddly it’s Nakamaru who catches Massu’s eye the most. He’d cleaned up a bit and looks more like a human being instead of a zombie in a tuxedo, but there’s something different about his demeanor as well. He’s standing tall, looking straight ahead, and putting one foot in front of the other like this is the most important thing in the world.

Massu realizes, after a few steps, that to Nakamaru, this probably is. Eriko is grinning and marching in time with her brother, but she’s also clinging to his arm, letting him lead her. Their parents hadn’t approved of this marriage and refused to attend, even on Rat-san’s treat, and their younger sister was busy with school and her own life. If Nakamaru hadn’t come all the way here, she would be walking down the aisle alone, and just the thought makes Massu sad.

There’s a soft ripple of laughter when they reach the altar and Nakamaru doesn’t let go, but Eriko just pats his arm with an amused smile and he loosens his grip. He lifts her veil, kisses her on the forehead, and bows his head to Rat-san – who awkwardly bows back – before taking his seat next to Massu. He’s completely still, breathing evenly, and Massu finally recognizes the look in his eyes as pride.

He makes it until the ring exchanges before tearing up, and Massu’s ready with the tissues. He smiles at him, shaking his shoulder a bit in manly support, and he’s just returning his hand to his lap when Nakamaru grabs it and squeezes. Massu stares down, a little lost at the sudden gesture, but all of Nakamaru’s tension and vulnerability seems to be releasing from him this way, and he’ll do whatever Nakamaru needs him to.

“That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Nakamaru tells him after it’s over, when everyone’s filing out of the ballroom.

Massu lets go of Nakamaru’s hand, stands, and brushes off his pants. “It can’t be easy to give your little sister away to another man,” he says sympathetically.

When he looks up at Nakamaru, he’s staring at him like Massu just called his sister a whore. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

Massu looks at him, tilts his head, and blinks in confusion. Then he stretches out his fingers and it clicks, his eyes widening as he looks down at his hand and back at Nakamaru, feeling a little like a deer in front of an oncoming car.

“I’m sorry,” Nakamaru rushes to say. “I thought, since you didn’t let go, it was okay. I shouldn’t have, but I did, and now I fucked everything up. I have to go.”

He power-walks down the aisle while Massu continues standing, bewildered as he watches Nakamaru leave. The past twenty-four hours flies through his mind, followed by the past _three years_ , and Massu’s heart is beating so fast that he feels like he just ran a marathon. His chest is visibly rising and falling with his breaths, and if he were in his right mind, he would think he’s having some kind of panic attack. But he’s not in his right mind, not at all, and everything only gets faster as he races after Nakamaru, impatiently waiting for the elevator and storming through the door of their hotel room with no grace and definitely no brain-to-mouth filter.

“You’re gay?!” he demands, shaking his hands uncontrollably. The one that had held Nakamaru’s still tingles.

“I don’t know what I am,” Nakamaru tells him crossly, loosening his tie as he sits on the edge of the bed. “And don’t yell at me. I’m already embarrassed enough.”

“I don’t mean to yell, that is, I’m not mad,” Massu gets out, his thoughts all coming in a jumble and it’s impossible to sort through them. “Do you even like girls?”

Nakamaru looks at the floor. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be apologize for,” Massu says firmly, calming down a little as he sits next to Nakamaru. He’s close enough for their thighs to touch, and he has no urge to put space between them. “I’m the one who should be sorry for shoving naked girls in your face. Literally. You should have _told_ me-”

He’s cut off by Nakamaru’s scoff. “Yeah, that would have gone over real well. ‘Sorry, Taka, the only person in this room I’d want to strip for me is _you_ ‘.”

Massu folds his hands in his lap, the back of his neck heating up. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to,” Nakamaru says quietly, dropping his head into his hands. “I fucked it up. Our friendship is ruined. _That_ is what I’m sorry about.”

The concept of not being friends with Nakamaru anymore makes Massu’s heart break. “Nothing will make me stop being friends with you, Yuichi. Even this.”

“You’re so good to me,” Nakamaru says, lifting his head with a sarcastic laugh. “I actually thought it could be possible, you know, that you felt the same, _because_ you’re so good to me. But it’s just how you are.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” Massu tells him honestly. “I’ve never thought about it like this before. How do you know? I mean, what’s the difference between just being friends and… more? Aside from the obvious physical stuff.”

“You just know,” Nakamaru answers with a shrug. “Like, wanting to be closer, feeling things. Being happy together. Not wanting to be with anyone else.”

Massu thinks about this. Very, very seriously. Nakamaru seems to sense that he’s working things out in his head, so he leaves him be and walks out the door, probably heading down to the reception. The reception is where the catering and wedding cake is, but Massu needs to think first. He needs to think, so he can decide how he feels and fix things with his most important person, no matter which way he chooses to go.

The second it occurs to him that he prioritized Nakamaru above wedding cake, he basically has his answer. Not one to be hasty, he stands in front of the mirror, fixes his hair, and holds his phone up to take a picture. He labels it _gay penguin_ and sends it to Shige, his only regret being unable to see his friend’s face when he receives the message.

It only takes a few minutes before it beeps again, and Massu laughs out loud at the response: _penguins travel in soul-mate pairs. where’s omaru-kun?_

 _waiting for me to catch up_ , Massu types, and turns off his phone as he exits the room.

Boobs are overrated, anyway.

*

“I’m really sorry for the misunderstanding,” Rat-san is saying, much more sociable now that he’s had a few drinks.

“What?” Massu asks, then stops Eriko when she starts to translate. “No, I understood what he said, I just don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Rat-san looks helplessly at his new wife, who just smiles – a bit tipsy herself – and turns to Massu. “When I said that Niichan would be bringing his male friend, I said ‘boy friend’ instead and Tony thought you two were _together_. That’s why you have a single room.”

“So sorry,” Rat-san adds, giving Massu another awkward head bow, and Massu turns to look at Nakamaru.

“I didn’t even notice,” he says in Japanese, and Nakamaru’s clueless face mirrors his words. “We always share a bed when we go on trips.”

Eriko laughs, like it’s hysterical, and her eyes land on Nakamaru. “Something you want to tell me, Niichan? Maybe my mistranslation was correct after all.”

“Mind your own business, nosy,” Massu teases her, saving Nakamaru and indirectly himself. “And I believe I was promised wedding cake for being awesome.”

Rat-san and Eriko had already cut the cake by the time Massu made it downstairs, so it was all sectioned and ready to be devoured. Eriko guides them to the table, pointedly thanking Massu for ‘taking care of Niichan’ before she disappears, and Massu savors each bite as he watches Nakamaru nervously eat his. It’s the first time they’ve technically been alone since Massu arrived at the reception, having been swept away by Eriko the second he walked into the banquet hall.

Afterwards, he wouldn’t be able to say why he actually did it, but sometimes impulses just happen and suddenly Nakamaru’s cake is on his face. Massu had put it there, leaning over to grab Nakamaru’s little paper plate right out of his hand and push it up onto his nose. Understandably, Nakamaru looks more confused than irritated, although his brows furrow in an unimpressed manner when Massu starts laughing.

“What has gotten into you-” Nakamaru starts to ask, but he stops abruptly when Massu grabs his head and retrieves the cake on his nose. With his mouth.

“Working my way up to stripping,” Massu whispers, making a face as he swallows. “I think I taste your face wash. Probably this is one of those things that is only cute in dramas.”

“Probably,” Nakamaru agrees, but that doesn’t stop him from darting his tongue out to lick the frosting around his mouth. It’s easy for Massu to follow, pressing his lips to Nakamaru’s and feeling the full-body rush that confirms his decision, and he smiles into their kiss despite the stray pieces of cake being smashed onto _his_ face in the process.

“Las Vegas is my favorite city in the _world_ ,” he declares, his eyes falling shut as he falls in love.


End file.
